Labor Weekend is over and you know what that means. All those goddamn hippies are making their way back from Burning Man in primer colored hatchbacks with sparkplugs and carob chips falling out of them. I don’t understand how 40,000 people who don’t use deodorant can be so self-righteous. If I wasn’t so- oh, what’s the phrase I’m looking for?- First World, I’d have driven my gas guzzler over there, covered myself in Banana Republic, pulled out a Frappuchino and blasted N’Sync from my mass-globalized iPod, drowning out the sitars and belly chains and evoking a riot of malodorous unemployed baristas. Then I’d toss plastic bottles and Styrofoam containers all over the place and defiantly not bury my poo.
Deal with that, beatnik.
Apparently, you’re not allowed to buy anything with money because currency, like, makes the world work and allows us all to live privileged lives of leisure, so you have to cheerily trade mix tapes for lentils or something. Whatever.
Fine, I will barter my 57 issues of In Touch Magazine for a Lady Bic. Oh wait. That’s impossible.
But Spots, you’re saying. Burning Man isn’t all hippies.
No, it’s not.
It’s also people like Obnoxious Mark, the yuppie poser I know who thinks he’s doing the world a favor by riding a Vespa, spending $42 on organic camembert at Urban Harvest and listening to lots of Beth Orton. All he does is drop how often he hangs out in Berkeley, goes to galleries his friends own and befriends hobos. Like that makes up for his being a complete closet-materialist, humorless shithead.
HE goes to Burning Man. And probably hates every second of it. But it’s all worth it when he can bore some normal person at snoozer cocktail party with his escapades of setting things on fire and communing with poor people.
I once set my stove on fire and told a boxcar willie that my car wasn’t his personal boudoir. No one’s patting me on the back.
I will go to Burning Man when they’ve got a Starbuck’s kiosk, a Gap Outlet and an energy-sucking indoor spa with well-showered, non-dreadlocked staff who don’t posses a horrible disdain for my refusal to sleep in a room that opens and closes by zipper…